thinking about a secret relationship with vice president!jack abbot
you're president robinavitch's chief of staff, meaning you have lots of overlap and coordinating with the vice president. unfortunately, that means that the affair you've been conducting with jack for the past three months is strictly prohibited
it's not your fault. or his. you and jack are both uniquely lonely, in a way that's very hard to describe to other people
just like everything else, you can manage juggling your own feelings with your job
until the press finds out, and everything goes to hell
i love you. you have worked so hard and spent so much time to bring people incredible enjoyment. you have made people's days and saved people's lives and distracted from pain and sickness and heartbreak. reading can be therapy or an antidepressant or simply something wonderful and happy to distract from the horrors.
there are not enough words to thank you writers for all you do. i can leave a novel-length comment but it still will not express the extent of what your fics have done for me and so many others, and will continue to do. some of these fics are lifechanging.
if you're reading this and write fic, you have likely made someone feel so many beautiful, incredible things, and we are so so very grateful. you have brought people together and contributed to them make lifelong friendships and you have helped people feel less alone in their lives and their experiences. please remember forever that you have made such a difference.
the space we stop - @mcybank | A.
⤷ jack has already decided what he can survive losing. you didn’t realize you weren’t on the list until you weren’t.
d-d-dirty mind - @goddessofstarss | S.
⤷ you were the young and talented r3 on the nightshift, you were sassy and confident in your work, but you also had a tendency to make a lot of dirty or inappropriate jokes for your workplace, which you didn’t know was something your boss enjoyed. so when you had to reel it in for a charity dinner, he didn’t know whether he missed it or was thankful you knew how to control yourself.
dr. jack abbot x bombshell!nurse!reader - @prettydaisygirl | F.
⤷ jack accidentally stumbles upon some of your old modeling photos.. and he can't help his reaction to them
jack of all trades - @oxalaia-quilombensis | S.
⤷ your family vacation home is falling apart. lucky for you, the hottest man you've ever seen is here to save the day. you make it your personal mission to get him to do a little more than just home repairs. and boy do you succeed.
bonk - @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff | F. A.
⤷ you don't remember hitting your head. you also don't remember marrying such a smokeshow.
what we pretend was enough - @girlpls1102 | A.
⤷ it was supposed to be simple. no feelings. no strings. no one finding out. but somewhere between late nights and stolen moments, you fell for the one person who was never meant to be yours. and when it all comes crashing down, you’re left wondering—was it ever real to him… or just convenient?
love in a bottle - @eufezco | A.
⤷ when meds start disappearing from the er and your best friend langdon becomes responsible for it, your name gets dragged down with his. and your boyfriend, jack, decides to take care of it before it reaches any higher.
jewelry mission - @shadeofpeach | A. F.
⤷ when the traditional 9-to-5 feel like an impossible mountain to climb, jack is there to remind you that your worth isn’t measured by a paycheck. And steps up as your biggest supporter.
the ex and the epiphany - @medusasfics | A.
⤷ an ex of jack’s shows up at the PTMC as a patient, wanting him back. he realises his true feelings for you.
little green monster - @seewhoyouwanttosee | A. F.
⤷ a slip up. that was all it was– a moment of weakness at the beginning of your residency, in which you had formed a crush on robby, your boyfriend's best friend. you didn't think too much of it when laughing about it with a friend, though an eavesdropping jack doesn't find it quite as funny as you do.
i've been looking for someone to put up with my bullshit
- @this-is-my-final-fit | A. S.
⤷ jack abbot has a bad day at work and can’t cool his irritation before he gets home. you try to make him feel better, but pay the price.
good morning baby - @rhettsunshine | F.
⤷ long nights always happen to jack. that's why he loves when he comes home to the love of his life
martini - @violetsnowdropp | S.
⤷ you were early for a girls night out, and before your girls got to the bar, you saw a few of the nightcrawlers. who were you not to say hello?
wedding band - @weird-is-life | A. F.
⤷ your relationship with jack is new so when dennis tells you that jack used to wear a ring, you immediately jump to the wrong conclusion and block jack
jack abbot x reader - @deathreverse | F.
mcdaddy - @softseasun | F.
⤷ you posted a twenty-second yiktok vlog and accidentally made your boyfriend the internet's dilf of the month. now, he's jack abbot—40s, senior attending, veteran, SWAT medic, and mcdaddy.
the smallest abbot - @starfires-comet | F.
⤷ jack maybe sharp , distant , and a little cruel at first , but when his wife shows up to the pitt with contractions , he shows a side that no one but a select few have seen before.
as in angelfish - @annsfics | S. F.
⤷ when dr. park is called down to the ed for a consult, jack's jealousy is riled when he gets a little too familiar with you, & you're then made to spend the rest of the evening reassuring him that you belong to one man only.
no man's land - @butyoudidthis4what | S. A.
⤷ there's a shooting where you work. jack is at the ED when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.
old bets - @bitters-n-sweets | A.
⤷ an old bet has accidentally resurfaced and you question where you stand in your relationship with jack.
yoga with dr. abbot - @the-shedevil-writes | F. S.
⤷ you finally pick up yoga after dealing with some aches and pains-- only to discover that your boyfriend used to do yoga and does a great job at talking you through it.
just some guy - @gragrace | F. A.
⤷ in the pitt, an ER admin worker becomes the only person unafraid to banter with the intimidating dr. jackabbot. while the residents fear him, the reader treats him like a normal person — forcing him to eat, teasing him constantly, and becoming the quiet place he keeps returning to after brutal shifts.
your husband is who? - @imaginesofwonder | F.
⤷ a routine IT call in the ED turns into an unexpected reveal when santos realizes the quiet IT specialist she’s been talking to is married to the doctor she works with.
foolish - @brucewayneswifey22 | F.
⤷ jack abbot has had a shit day. luckily, his beautiful OBGYN wife is there to save his day.
the arrangement - @abbotafterhours | F.
⤷ jack need's a hobby, you need to eat more. jack needs you, you need jack. love ensues!
jack abbot x fem!reader - @moodyabbott | S.
thank you, handsome - @shadeofpeach | F.
⤷ you decide it’s finally time to pay him back for all his flirting.
the shape of wanting - @p1stach-io | A.
⤷ you bring jack as your date to a wedding and he brings everything you’ve both been avoiding.
hidden heartbeat - @medusasfics | A.
⤷ you find out you’re pregnant, and decide to hide your pregnancy from jack, because you’re scared he won’t want to be a father.
ice-cream and fries - @weird-is-life | F.
⤷ a pregnant you makes a surprising appearance in the ER. Too impatient to wait for jack in the car.
mommy makeover - @rimunagenius | F. S.
jack abbot x wife!reader - @buglass | F.
1 plus 1 equals 3? - @mistas-bullets | F. S.
⤷ your first born, bean wants a baby sister or brother after having a conversation with mel about her sister.
series ---------
an exception - @afternight-crimson | S.
⤷ as a way to relieve stress from being a resident in the PTMC, you sleep around. over the years, you’ve managed to keep it uncomplicated by following one strict principle: never sleep with coworkers. however, unbeknownst to you, your attending physician, jack abbot, wants to be an exception to that principle.
get it over with - @fromsil | A. S.
⤷ you and jack have a tendencies of flirting, quite a lot. all the night shift has gotten used to it at this point, they are just waiting for the both of you to get it over with.
jack abbot x reader - @deawritestuff | A. F.
red eye - @criticalclaire | A.
⤷ gianna deluca is seven weeks away from graduating nursing school and barely holding it together with iced americanos, sarcasm, and tips from exhausted healthcare workers at the diner across from pittsburgh trauma medical center. especially the unfairly attractive silver-haired doctor who comes in every morning after overnight shift and orders the exact same thing without fail. gianna never planned on actually talking to him. then she starts her final ER clinical rotation and realizes the quiet man from booth sixteen is jack abbot, the attending physician everyone in the department seems mildly terrified of. which would be a lot less embarrassing if she wasn't already weirdly attached to his coffee order.
your mind's walking out - @lovebugism | A. F.
⤷ no one at the pitt knows you and jack are separated when you show up to the emergency room during a particularly chaotic shift, with a number of dubious symptoms that force you and jack to reconcile.
almost home - @p1stach-io | A.
⤷ when your daughter gets suspended at school, you end up in the er asking your estranged husband to talk some sense into her.
palm of his hand - @lukovsnirvana | A. F.
⤷ following your six month leave, you’re back at ptmc ready to continue your residency. you tell yourself you’re fine. the weight is manageable. the rush of the hospital should keep your thoughts from wandering where they shouldn’t. for a while that mindset will work, but there will be times, fleeting, where you remember why you left, and will have trouble remembering why you’re back. he won’t make it any easier, and he’s not going to let you leave again, and maybe you aren’t ready to leave either. he’s already figured you out, and he’s tightening his grasp on you, ready to hold you steady in the palm of his hand.
imagines and drabbles ---------
imagine jack abbot overhearing your conversation about him
⤷ @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction
imagine jack abbot being grumpy and robby needing your help
⤷ @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction
summary: part two to this - you try to put a label on your relationship with jack abbot & things don't go the way either of you want
content/warnings: inappropriate relationship, unspecified age gap, minimal smut, angst, discussion of death, discussion of pregnancy loss, body image issues, miscommunication(?)
wc: 2.5k
notes: this is short and more of a bridge to the final part that I have been working on. I just thought it would work better to be separated into three parts, but I will work on part three quicker, I promise
You cry out as your clit bumps against the rough fabric of Jack Abbot's tac pants. This is how life has been for the last few months. Desperate moments with your night shift Attending. Begging him to allow you to cum. Him pressed deep inside you, whispering filthy words into your ear. Never at your apartment. Never at his home.
Your apartment, to be fair, isn't an option. You live with Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker. So, explaining why your boss is spending stolen moments in your shared kitchen is not something you plan on doing. As for Jack's home...well, you don't ask. At the start, it's because most of your heated encounters are stolen moments at work. You share a knowing look across the ED, and suddenly you're making out in the on-call room. Or you're sneaking up to the abandoned ward where you let him fuck your brains out.
Then it progressed to planning to meet in hotels around Pittsburgh. Never close to the hospital. Never where you would be found out.
You understand this. While there's no rule against dating Attendings...it isn't something that is encouraged. You also don't want to listen to the sharp comments from people who think you fucked your way to your place in the PTMC. Not like you worked your ass off for years before getting your place in the Emergency Department.
It wouldn't do well for Jack Abbot if people found out he was sleeping with an intern. He's well respected in PTMC. He's a brilliant doctor, a great teacher. He doesn't have favourites. And he intends to keep up appearances.
Even Dr Robby thinks it's an unrequited crush. He has no idea that Jack is buried in your tight cunt multiple times a week.
You gasp his name as you cum from riding his thigh in a supply closet.
"You should go back out there, sweetheart," Abbot praises, kissing you as you come down from your high.
You nod stupidly after a minute. You pull your scrub pants back on and head back out to finish your shift. Jack dips out after making sure the other member of his SWAT team's injury isn't too severe.
Dana is explaining the upcoming Emergency Department day out. It's a grill...or a picnic... Anyway, everyone is supposed to come together and raise money for the department. Langdon is promising his wife, Abby, will make some brownies or other tray bakes that are clearly a hit with the rest of the team.
It's a family event, you gather, as Langdon shares that Tanner has been talking about it for months.
"Is your husband coming?" you ask Dana, who smiles and nods.
"Oh yea, he wouldn't miss it. My kids will probably drop in. My daughter just had her second kid. So that's gonna be three generations of Evans," she tells you with the biggest smile.
"I can't wait!" you enthuse as your favourite charge nurse shows you pictures of her youngest grandchild.
"So does everyone's families come?" you ask then, trying to play it casual.
You aren't stupid. You've noticed Abbot's wedding ring. He's never mentioned a wife...or a family. But as the weeks turned to months and he never once offered his home as an option for your hookups you begin to worry that you're the other woman. And that's not something you're comfortable with.
"Everyone who has family around Pittsburgh, yep," she responds, looking at you over her glasses.
"So we'll meet the elusive Mrs Abbot," your respond, trying and failing to keep your voice light.
At your question Dana's head snaps up. She examines your face which has probably drained of blood at this point. You're nervous. You shouldn't have asked that. You have put a mark on your back. It's so obvious why you're asking.
But Dana gives a small, sad smile and shakes her head.
"Dr Abbot's wife passed away a few years ago. Complications in child birth," she offers. "He never talks about it. Always wears the ring though. I haven't seen him get close to anyone since then..."
You freeze. Feeling guilty. Sick to your stomach. Jack lost his wife and you had presumed that you were a mistress. You knew he wasn't that type of man. You would never be attracted to that type of person.
"Oh. Shit. I'm sorry," you breathe.
"Not your fault, kid," she responds with a sad smile. "You didn't know. He doesn't talk about it. How were you supposed to know? I hope he's not still riding you."
Your eyes go wide at her choice of words.
"I know you were having a pretty tough time a while ago. I overheard Robby mentioning you were finishing up your night shift rotation early."
You give a small shrug and take a sip of your water bottle.
"Yea, I don't know what's up Dr Abbot's ass. But he didn't feel like I was a necessary addition to the nightcrawlers," you tease, crossing your eyes. "Worry not, though, cos when any of his favourite crawlies call out I'm always drafted in!"
Dana's lips curl into a smile and she nods, just as the man in question walks into the Pitt. He looks so fucking handsome, your mouth goes dry. God, you need to get yourself together! This was so fucking embarrassing.
Well, it would be, if you weren't going to some fancy hotel this weekend with him. You finish your shift quickly before you can get distracted by the older man. You climb into Trinity's car with Dennis sliding into the back.
"I'm gonna be away this weekend," you say casually.
"Again?" Trinity says cocking her eyebrow as she drives towards your shared apartment.
"Well, there's only so much I can take of you and Yolanda Garcia fuckin'," you tease her.
This comment causes her cheeks to tinge pink. You don't love how Garcia seems to pick and choose when she needs Trin. But how is it any different than what you and Jack are doing? At least they're not hiding it. Well, not really. They're not advertising it, but they're still... You don't know... Trinity deserves better than a situationship.
You climb into Trinity's bed that night. Sometimes the three of you had what you affectionately called roommate slumberparties. And it seems like the topic at hand is situationships.
"So who are you screwing?" she immediately asks you, which makes Dennis scrunch up his face.
"Don't say it like that," he groans.
You sigh, "I can't tell you...cos it's someone from the hospital."
"Robby?" Trinity immediately asks.
You make a disgusted noise, "Absolutely not! But the person is not married. It's just...It would be messy if it got out."
Trinity and Dennis look at each other. You know they will be discussing this when you're not here. But you just need to get it all off your chest.
"But I don't want to be a dirty little secret anymore. And I don't need to, like, announce it at work or like even hold hands. But I mean, I would like to go on a date! I haven't even been to his house...or apartment. I don't even know where he lives! We go away for these like fuck sessions on the other side of the city in nice hotels. And at the start it was fun and sexy. But it's been five months," you ramble.
"I wanna go for after-work drinks and sit beside him in the fuckin' booth! Is that too much to ask for?"
You don't realise you're crying until Trinity and Dennis are both hugging you. What a fucking disaster! You're a fucking disaster! How did this happen? How are you crying over Jack Abbot!
Dennis clears his throat, "I think you need to tell him this. You need to make it clear that you don't wanna be just a fuck buddy to him."
He cringes at the term but continues on, "That you want more than hooking up."
"And if he doesn't want that?" you whisper, your voice breaking.
"Well fuck him!" Trinity says and hugs you again.
You pull up at the fancy hotel where you'll spend the weekend with Jack with one goal in mind.
Tell him how you feel.
You don't want to be a secret anymore. You don't want stolen moments. You want him. You want it all. Hell, you haven't even seen him naked before! When you are lucky enough to spend the night in one of the hotels he picks, you usually fall asleep before him and wake up after him. You don't know how he does it. It's like he's afraid of you seeing any vulnerability in him.
Jack has no idea about any of this. How could a beautiful, young thing want more than this with him? He had thought it was a one-time thing, up in the abandoned floor. But then it happened again. Then he saw you at a bar and he couldn't help but kiss you. Away from prying eyes of course. Soon, it became a given; he just had to have you.
About a month into this whole situation, he suggested going to a hotel. You were so happy and eager. He ordered room service. It was the first time you'd eaten together. It was a whole other type of intimate. Then he fucked you so hard you saw stars. You had reached out to him afterwards, to cuddle, to sleep in the same bed. He faked an emergency at work and fled.
He doesn't know why he is hiding his leg from you. He hasn't done this before. He's not ashamed of his amputation. But you're so young and vivacious and full of life. He's firmly middle-aged with a tonne of baggage. And he's disabled. He couldn't burden you with an asshole like him.
For the first time, he's booked a hotel for two nights. So maybe he wants to get more close to you. Maybe he'll allow that. And when he gets up to the room that you've already checked into, all his nerve disappears. He sees you standing there, looking out the window, the moonlight illuminating your beautiful body. You're not dressed fancy, just in a simple t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, but you're still a vision to him.
He crosses the room and kisses you. His hands cupping your face, holding you like you're the most precious thing in the world. And you kiss him back with the same desperation. You grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer.
He's moving you to the bed before you realise what's happening.
"Wait, Jack," you manage to gasp out. "Can we talk?"
His blood runs cold. He's been waiting for this. Waiting for you to come to your senses and tell him you can't do this anymore. You've found a more age-appropriate partner. This was a fun fling, but you can't do it anymore.
What comes out is somehow worse.
"I want more," you breathe as you sit on the edge of the bed. "I really like you, Jack. But I can't keep pretending that ten-minute fucks between shifts is enough. I haven't even been to your house. Hell, we haven't even been on a date. I want more than this."
Jack opens his mouth and closes it.
"Isn't this a date?" he tries.
You look at him as if he is genuinely insane.
"Jack! I'm an hour away from where I live, just so we can hole up in this room. Hell! We'll have sex and maybe you won't even be here in the morning. I've started to feel more like a call girl than a..."
You stop because what can you compare yourself to? A girlfriend? Well, you're definitely not that.
"I don't want a situationship," you state.
"A what?" he asks, genuine confusion on his face.
"I don't wanna be a booty call. A fuck buddy. I don't want you to keep messing with my mind."
Jack softens now. He understands what you're talking about.
"I haven't...I haven't dated in a very, very long time, kid," he says gently. "Not since before my wife. I, um, I was married. For a really long time, actually. She died...when she was giving birth to our daughter. Our first child, actually. We were so excited. I was so fuckin' scared. What was I gonna do with a baby? I can't even take care of myself.
"But then we were on a trip and she started bleeding. I couldn't help her. The doctors at the hospital couldn't help her. And...I was alone. For the first time in a very long time. And I didn't know what to do.
"I let myself mourn. Then I went back to work. I was...I was awful back then. Robby'll tell ya. So then I started going to therapy and I got, well not better, but I adjusted. But I can't do that again."
You look at him. Your eyes narrowing now, unsure of what he's saying.
"Can't do what?" you whisper, your voice coming out weaker than you expect.
"I can't open myself up like that again. I don't want to do that again."
He can't love you, is what he's saying. He can't be a partner, a husband or a dad. He doesn't want to.
"So what have we been doing then?" you ask.
He just looks at you, pain clear in his eyes. He had shut himself off so long ago. He hadn't intended to let you pry open the door like you had. And he needed to put an end to it. This all had gotten out of hand. He never intended for it to get this messy. To get this far!
"I don't know," he gruffs out. "Making a very long mistake."
His words knock the wind out of you. You can feel the tears prick your eyes, but you can't, you just can't cry in front of him. Not now, not after he called this a mistake.
Instead, you swallow thickly and stand up.
"Okay, well, it's good to know that's how you view me, Dr Abbot," you breathe as you gather your bags. "I'll see you on Monday."
You push out of the hotel room and pack yourself into your car. You only allow yourself to cry when you're hidden from view in your shitty car. You only allow that breakdown to come when you know he can't see you.
Jack instead is pacing around the hotel room still. What has he just done? Why would he say that? A mistake? This has probably been the only right decision he has made in over a decade. You are the best thing that has happened to him in so fucking long. But he can't enjoy you, can't enjoy this. He had to blow it up.
A mistake.
The word rings in your head. As you drive home.
Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.
You're his mistake. One you'll make sure he doesn't make again.
a/n: thanks for reading! part three is coming I promise!
okay shane and ilya have their locations shared: shane never checks ilya he doesn’t even think about it but ilya checks… ilya watches shane exist; driving to practice then back home, going to the grocery store, going to the gym, going to hayden’s house, playing in different cities, going to a mall? oh he’s with rose, then he’s going back to the hotel, but his favourite is watching shane drive to ottawa, to ilya.
After Shane joins the Centaurs, he realizes Luca Haas lives six blocks away and insists that they carpool. Ilya is delighted to continue his campaign of harassing the rookie through acts of kindness.
Now every practice and home game, Luca hears obnoxious club music blaring from half a block away, Ilya's ridiculous slutty little sports car revving while he shouts shit like, "Get in loser, is bag skate day" until Luca jumps in the car and crams his giant hockey body into the stupidly small backseat.
On Game 6 day of the championship, Shane's the one who shouts, "Get in loser, we're winning the Cup" and Luca smiles all the way to scoring the winning goal.
you were supposed to be part of his future. now you’re just someone he has to look at across the room.
notes: this came to me while listening to the wonderful playlist that @elle-28 made me for one of my fics for another fandom. i've never been a big TS fan, but this song just spoke to me. sorry if there are a ton of typos. :< enjoy! <3
my masterlist
request guide
The ballroom is warm in a way that would usually feel inviting.
Golden light spills from the chandeliers overhead, sharpened by the overly polished floors and perfectly pressed uniforms, catching on the edges of medals and glassware, on the easy, practiced smiles of people who feel like they belonged in rooms like this. Conversations overlap in a low, steady hum—laughter, long-overdue reunions, the faint clink of expensive crystal—everything blending into a familiar feeling that blankets you in the most uneasy way.
This should feel familiar.
You’ve been to plenty of events like this. You’re practiced enough to expect the rhythm, to abide by the unspoken rules: smile at the right time, keep your posture relaxed but not careless, hold eye contact long enough to seem engaged, and smile and nod. It's a performance, in its own way, and one you've learned how to give without thinking too hard.
Tonight, though, something doesn’t feel right.
It settles into you the second the doors close behind you, slipping quietly beneath the hum of the room. The discomfort is subtle but insistent, pressing somewhere deep beneath your ribs. Your hand tightens slightly around your purse before you consciously relax your grip, smoothing your fingers delicately over the fabric of your dress instead—an automatic gesture meant to ground you in familiarity.
It’s just another gala, you tell yourself. You’ve been to plenty of these.
You step forward, heels quiet against the floor, weaving into the edges of the crowd with the ease of habit. Faces blur past you, some familiar but most not. Idle conversations brush against you and slip away just as quickly. Someone nods in your direction; you return it automatically, a polite smile already in place.
I could do this in my sleep.
Until a laugh breaks through the noise.
It doesn’t belong in the room at all—or maybe it does. Your body reacts to it before your mind can catch up, before you’re able to reason it away. It’s low, a little rough around the edges, threaded with an easiness, unguarded. It cuts clean through the layered noise of everything else, at least to you.
You’re in the middle of a conversation, one that maybe you won’t remember tomorrow, but your breath catches mid-sentence.
You can’t turn immediately, no, you have to be polite and finish your story. You fix your gaze somewhere ahead of you, not quite engaging with the polite crowd surrounding you. Suddenly, you can hear your pulse just a little too loudly in your ears. It's a ridiculous reaction, you know that. It could be anyone. It’s been years, certainly long enough that the pang of memory shouldn’t cut you so sharply, so immediately.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” you say, the words smooth, practiced, accompanied by a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
You step away before they can respond, before you have to hold the conversation together any longer, your body already moving with quiet urgency.
Something in you already knows. Slowly—too slowly—you scan the room, your gaze moving over unfamiliar faces. Perhaps to find him, perhaps to avoid him.
But there he is. In the flesh.
Across the room, half-angled toward a small cluster of people, a drink held loosely in one hand. He’s in uniform, of course, but it's the way he holds himself that catches you first. He’s relaxed, like he belongs exactly where he is, like he knows it. Like he always has.
Older, your mind supplies distantly.
Broader through the shoulders. The lines of him filled out in a perfect way that speaks to time passed, to years you weren’t there to see. But it’s still him. Unmistakably and undeniably him.
Your Bradley Bradshaw.
Well, not anymore.
The name lands in your chest with a weight that feels almost physical.
For a moment, everything else in the room recedes; conversations around you dull to something distant, like you’re hearing everything from underwater. Movement slows at the edges of your vision. You’re aware, suddenly and acutely, of how still you’ve gone—how your body has locked into place as if it’s waiting for you to catch up.
You didn't think—
No, that's not true. You did think about this. Many times, a long time ago. You just didn't expect it would ever actually happen.
You don’t realize just how completely you've stopped until a stranger brushes past your shoulder, close enough to jolt you back into the moment. You murmur an apology automatically, stepping aside, your gaze flicking back to him before you can stop it.
He hasn’t seen you yet.
You could leave.
The thought is sharp and tempting. You could turn around, walk back out those doors, let them close behind you again like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just have the past drop back into your life without warning.
It would be easy, but you know you can't.
You’re not here by accident. Your company is on the sponsor list, printed neatly at the front of the program, tied to a campaign that needs hands shaken and conversations had. You were expected here and have already been seen. Leaving now would raise questions you just don't have the energy to answer.
But worse—it would feel like running.
You’ve done enough running.
So you stay.
Longer than you should, probably, your body caught somewhere between instinct and obligation, your gaze drifting back to him despite yourself. He shifts slightly within the group, saying something that earns a quiet ripple of laughter, his head tipping just enough that the light catches along the edge of his jaw.
It's familiar in a way that feels almost cruel, in a way that makes your heart ache.
You force yourself to look away.
This is ridiculous.
You’re not seventeen anymore—standing in a crowded hallway outside a gymnasium, pretending you’re not watching him across the room, waiting for him to notice you first. You’re not that girl. You’re not someone who freezes at the sight of a man—any man—no matter who he used to be to you.
Used to be.
It settles heavy in your chest, harder to shake than you expect.
You exhale slowly, gathering hold of yourself, and then—finally—you move.
Not toward him. Never toward him.
Instead, you angle toward the bar, slipping between clusters of people with quiet purpose, willing yourself to focus on anything but him. The bartender catches your eye as you approach, offering a polite nod as he reaches for a glass.
“What can I get you?”
You mean to ask for something easy. Something safe. Something that won’t leave a trace.
Instead, you hear yourself order something uncharacteristically strong.
The bartender doesn't question it. He simply turns, measures, pours, and slides the glass toward you with practiced ease.
You take it without a second thought, the cool crystal grounding you as you bring the drink to your lips. The first sip burns just enough to anchor you back to reality, to cut through the strange, disorienting haze that’s settled over your thoughts.
It doesn’t help as much as you’d hoped, because even now—especially now—your attention drifts right back to him.
You don’t mean for it to, and you certainly don’t want it to. But it happens just the same, your gaze pulled right back across the room to where you saw him earlier. You try to convince yourself it's just curiosity, a confirmation you weren’t seeing things. Maybe if you look long enough, the shock will fade into something manageable.
It doesn’t.
He shifts again, turning slightly as someone new joins their conversation, and for a moment, you catch a clearer view of his profile. The slope of his nose, the line of his mouth, the mustache that now shadows his upper lip, and the way his shoulders fill out the uniform in a way that feels... unfair.
Time has been kind to him.
You hate that you notice.
You hate that it still matters.
You take another sip, slower this time, your fingers tightening slightly around the glass as if that might steady something deeper than your hands. Around you, the room continues on as if nothing has changed—like your world hasn’t just tilted off its axis in the span of a single breath.
I could still leave.
The thought lingers, quieter now, less urgent but no less present.
You don’t move.
“Bradshaw—!”
The voice comes from just a few feet to your left—a fellow pilot, you presume.
The voice cuts in from somewhere to your left, close enough to carry and sharp enough to break through the steady hum of the room, and your stomach drops as he turns. The movement is instinctive, immediate—his attention shifting toward the call without hesitation before continuing past it, drawn toward you as if something in him already knew where to look.
Your breath catches, and there’s no time to look away now, no chance to pretend you hadn’t been watching him, that your attention hadn’t been fixed on him like it still meant something.
His eyes find you fully this time, and everything in you stills. The change is subtle, but you see it: the faint tightening at the corner of his eyes, the way his expression stills just enough to give him away, the way his focus sharpens in a way that has nothing to do with anyone else in the room. And then—slower, more deliberate—his gaze moves.
It drags over you, not careless, not casual, but measured. Taking you in pieces by piece, like he’s trying to place you, to reconcile the person standing in front of him with the one he remembers. Your face first, searching, lingering just a second too long, before it dips—your shoulders, the line of your posture, the way you hold yourself now. There’s something almost instinctive in it, like he’s orienting himself, recalibrating, mapping the distance between who you were and who you are.
It’s not just recognition. It’s assessment.
And something else—something quieter, harder to name—threaded through it.
For a moment, everything else falls away—the music, the conversations, the distance—until it’s just him, looking at you like he’s trying to understand how you’re real, how you’re here, standing in front of him after all this time, like he’s not sure if you’re something he imagined.
Your grip tightens around your glass, the cool surface pressing into your palm as you fight the instinct to look away, but you don’t—not this time—and for one suspended, fragile second, neither of you moves.
The hallway was too loud.
Lockers slammed, voices overlapped, sneakers squeaked on linoleum. Everything blended into the kind of chaos that could only exist on your first day at a new school. It was overwhelming in an unfamiliar, exhilarating way. It felt like you had walked into something already in motion, like everyone else knew exactly where they were going and you were just trying to keep up.
You adjusted the straps of your bag higher on your shoulders, weaving through the crowd with careful precision, your gaze fixed ahead and downward, as if that might make you less noticeable.
You were halfway to your locker—still not convinced you were even going the right way—when you turned the corner too fast.
And ran straight into someone.
The impact was solid enough to knock what little breath you were holding from your lungs, your bag slipping down your shoulders as papers shifted.
“Shit—sorry,” you blurted automatically, already bending to grab what you had dropped, but the person you collided with was faster.
A hand caught your arm before you could fully bend down, steadying you without thinking.
“Easy,” he said, voice low, threaded with something that sounded suspiciously like amusement. “Didn’t mean to take you out on your first day.”
You stilled for a second, then looked up.
He was close, far too close. Close enough that everything else sort of… faded at the edges. You noticed things you shouldn’t: the way his hair curled slightly at his forehead, the way his eyes settled on you like he was trying to figure you out, the hint of a smile pulling at his mouth like he already thought this was funny.
Like you were funny to him.
Your brain stuttered for a moment, taking a second to catch up.
“I wasn’t—” you started, then stopped, your words getting stuck somewhere between your head and your mouth. Your gaze dropped without meaning to, catching on the fact that his hand was still on your arm.
Warm and steady. Like he hadn’t noticed.
Or maybe he had.
The moment stretched on for a few beats too long. Then he followed your gaze and let go immediately.
“Right,” he said quickly, a breath of a laugh in it as he lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “My bad. I’ll try not to commit assault before first period next time.”
You just blinked at him.
You should have been annoyed, but you weren’t.
There was something about him that made it hard to be, like he wasn’t trying to impress you but somehow still was.
You straightened, brushing your hands over your clothes just to do something with them.
“Maybe just watch where you’re going,” you said, but it came out lighter than you meant it to.
His smile widened a little.
“Or,” he said, tilting his head, “you could stop cutting corners like you had somewhere more important to be.”
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “You had no idea where I was going.”
“Fair,” he shrugged. “But first period on the first day?” He glanced past you, then back. “Not exactly high stakes.”
Then, despite yourself—with all the tension and nerves from being at a new school—
You laughed.
It slipped out before you could stop it, quiet and a little surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.
He noticed immediately. Something shifted in his expression, more focused. Like he was really paying attention to you now.
“Bradshaw,” he said after a second, like it was nothing. “Bradley.”
The name hung there between you, settling into the space like it belonged. You hesitated for just a moment, your fingers tightening slightly around the strap of your bag, then gave him yours. He repeated it back, slower this time, like he was testing the sound of it, like he didn’t want to mess it up. There was a small pause after, just long enough to feel intentional, like he wanted to make sure you heard it, like he wanted you to know he was paying attention.
“Good,” he said, almost under his breath.
You narrowed your eyes a little. “Good?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged, easy again, but there was something behind it now. “Would’ve been a shame to almost knock someone over and not know their name.”
You shook your head, a stupid smile still plastered on your face, bending to grab the last of your things.
“Try not to make a habit of it.”
“No promises.”
You stood, adjusting your bag again, fingers tugging the strap higher onto your shoulder. The movement gave you something to focus on, something small and controlled, because for a second there was nothing else to do.
You shifted your weight instead, glancing down the hallway like you had suddenly remembered where you were supposed to be, like that was the only thing keeping you from standing there longer than you should have.
“First period,” you mumbled.
“Tragic,” he said.
There was a hint of a smile in it.
You let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh, and nodded once like that settled it.
So you stepped around him.
Close enough to feel his presence, the space he took up, the way it didn’t quite feel like anyone else, but not close enough to touch.
The hallway pulled you back in immediately, noise and movement swallowing you whole as you fell into step with everyone else.
You made it a few steps before you stopped yourself from doing something stupid—but then you did it anyway.
You looked back, and he was still there. Turned slightly now, like he had never really left the moment. Like he had been watching you go.
Your eyes met again—quick this time, fleeting, but enough to send something sharp and unfamiliar through your chest.
You looked away first and kept walking.
“Ma’am?”
The word pulls you back before you’re ready for it, grounding you abruptly in the present. The ballroom rushes in all at once—the low swell of conversation, the muted clink of glassware, the weight of your drink still held too tightly in your hand. For a second, everything feels slightly out of sync, like you’ve returned to a place that kept moving without you.
You blink, steadying yourself.
The bartender offers you a polite, patient look, gesturing lightly toward your glass. “Another?”
You hesitate longer than you should, your fingers tightening just slightly before you realize there’s nothing left in the glass. You hadn’t even noticed that you'd finished it. The absence feels strange, like something slipping through your grasp without your permission, and your pulse hasn’t quite settled, still echoing faintly in your ears.
“No,” you say at last, your voice quieter than intended. You clear your throat, straightening almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine.”
He nods and moves on, the interaction already forgotten on his end.
You wish this were that easy for you.
Because across the room, nothing has changed.
He’s still there.
Not the boy from the hallway, not the version of him softened by memory and distance, but something sharper, more defined. And he’s still looking at you.
Not in passing, not by accident—there’s nothing fleeting about it. It’s deliberate, steady, and it makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with surprise anymore. This isn’t just seeing him again; it isn’t nostalgia, or curiosity, or even shock. It’s recognition of something unfinished.
The realization settles slowly, pressing in with a quiet weight that’s harder to ignore the longer you stand there. Because nothing about the way he’s looking at you suggests this is easy for him either.
For years, it was easier to believe that whatever this had been only lingered on your side.
That he had moved on cleanly, without looking back.
Your grip shifts against the glass, your thumb brushing along the edge as you try to steady yourself, to find some version of composure that fits this moment better than the one you’re currently holding onto.
You could at least look away.
You could still end this here, reduce it back down to coincidence, to something more manageable.
But you don’t, and that might be the problem.
It didn’t stay in the hallway.
It carried into the next day, and the one after that, slipping easily into something that felt routine before you ever stopped to define it. You started noticing him before you meant to, catching sight of him across crowded hallways, already aware of where he was without needing to look for long. And he stopped pretending he wasn’t doing the same, like somewhere along the way the pretense had stopped mattering.
It was small things at first. Conversations that lingered just a little too long between classes, the way he would fall into step beside you without asking, like it was already expected. Lunch periods that overlapped more often than they should have, shared looks across rooms that didn’t feel accidental anymore.
Then it became something else.
You stopped parting ways at the last bell. Stopped pretending there wasn’t a reason to linger. It turned into walking each other out, into standing a little too long by the edge of the parking lot, into conversations that stretched past the point where either of you had anywhere else to be. At some point, without ever deciding it out loud, you started ending up there together.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The lot was nearly empty, the last of the after-school noise fading into the distance, leaving behind long stretches of pavement and the kind of quiet that made everything feel more defined. The sun hung low, casting everything in a warm, fading light that softened the edges of things, turning the ordinary into something you knew you’d remember later.
You were sitting on the hood of his truck like you had done it a dozen times before, your hands braced behind you, fingers spread against the warmth of the metal, your bag dropped carelessly nearby. Your legs swung idly, your heel tapping lightly against the side of the truck in a quiet rhythm that filled the space between his words.
Bradley stood between your knees, closer than he had been that first day, closer than he probably should have been, but it didn’t feel strange anymore.
He was in the middle of a story, and you followed it at first, catching the details as he talked, the rise and fall of his voice, the way he gestured like the story needed his hands as much as his words. But somewhere in the middle, your attention shifted without you realizing it, drawn away from what he was saying and toward the way he was saying it—toward him.
The way his hands moved when he talked, quick and expressive, like he needed them to keep up with his thoughts. The way his voice carried easily, unguarded in a way that felt different out there than it did inside. The way he looked at you when he spoke, like it mattered that you were listening.
“—and then he just completely missed it,” Bradley was saying, shaking his head with a quiet laugh, “like I’m right there, I’ve got it covered, and he still—”
He stopped mid-sentence, the shift subtle but immediate, because you weren’t following anymore. You were looking at him, not even pretending otherwise, and it took him a second to catch it before his expression changed, his attention narrowing in a way that felt entirely focused on you.
“What?” he asked, quieter now, more curious than anything else.
You blinked like you’d been caught. “Nothing.”
He didn’t believe you. You could tell by the way his mouth tilted, by the way he studied you for a second longer than necessary. “You’ve got that look again.”
You frowned slightly. “What look?”
“That one,” he said, gesturing loosely toward your face, as if that explained anything. “Like you stopped listening to me halfway through.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, your shoulders relaxing just a little. “I was listening.”
“Yeah?” He stepped closer, just enough to close the space between you by an inch that felt like more than it should have. “Then what did I just say?”
You hesitated, and that was all he needed. His smile came slowly and familiar, the kind you had seen enough times now to recognize exactly what it meant. “Thought so.”
You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly where you were sitting, your knee brushing his in a way that felt less accidental this time, more like you hadn’t bothered to stop it. Neither of you moved away.
“You talked a lot,” you said, because it was easier than acknowledging anything else.
“Only when you’re around.”
The answer came easily, like it always did, but this time it landed differently. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he was looking at you when he said them—something steadier there now, something more intentional. You felt it settle somewhere low in your chest, warm and unfamiliar, and for a second, you didn’t know what to do with it.
“You didn’t have to,” you said, quieter than before.
“I know,” he replied, just as easily, and there was no hesitation in it, no second-guessing, just certainty. Then, after a beat that stretched just long enough to feel deliberate, he added, “I wanted to.”
Something shifted, and you felt it in the way your breath caught slightly, in the way your fingers pressed more firmly into the metal behind you, in the way your knees shifted just enough to bring him closer without either of you acknowledging it out loud. He noticed—you could see it in the way his gaze flicked down briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, like he was checking, like he was making sure you were still there with him in that moment.
“Hey,” he said quietly, not quite a question, not quite a warning—just enough to give you the chance to stop it before it became something else.
You didn’t.
You stayed exactly where you were, your hand lifting from the hood almost without your permission, fingers catching lightly in the front of his shirt. It was a small movement, but it was enough to change something between you, enough to make it clear that you weren’t stepping back from this.
He moved slowly, deliberately, closing the distance between you in a way that felt intentional, like he was giving you time to register every second of it. You could feel his breath then, warm against your skin, could see the way his expression shifted into something more careful, more focused, like this mattered in a way neither of you was saying out loud. He paused just short of you, close enough that the space between you felt almost nonexistent, like it would disappear entirely if either of you moved even a fraction closer.
And then he kissed you.
It started soft, careful in a way that felt almost unexpected from him, like he was still giving you time to pull away even then. His mouth brushed yours lightly at first, hesitant, testing, and for a second everything else dropped away—the parking lot, the fading light, the quiet hum of the world beyond the two of you—until it was just that, just the feeling of it, just him.
You didn’t pull away. Your grip tightened slightly in his shirt instead, steadying yourself as you leaned into it, and the hesitation faded. His hand came to your waist, warm and sure, not pulling you closer so much as holding you there, grounding the moment as it deepened just slightly, still unhurried, still figuring itself out as it went. It wasn’t perfect, not practiced, but it felt real in a way that mattered more than anything else.
When he pulled back, it was slow, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to. He didn’t go far, just enough to look at you, his hand still at your waist, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt, the space between you different now in a way that was impossible to ignore.
“What was that?” you asked, your voice quieter, a little breathless despite yourself.
His mouth curved slightly, something softer than his usual grin. “I think I’d been wanting to do that for a while.”
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “A while?”
He shrugged, like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter nearly as much as it clearly did. “Since the hallway.”
That made you laugh for real that time, the sound breaking whatever tension was left, and just like that, it felt easy again, like it always had been, like it always would be.
“Excuse me.”
The words are leaving your mouth before you’ve fully processed them, quiet but firm enough to cut into the conversation without drawing too much attention. Your boss turns towards you, mid-sentence, their expression shifting as they take you in.
“Everything alright?”
You nod automatically, already smoothing your expression into something easier, something that doesn’t invite questions.
“Yeah. I just—” You pause, just for a second, like you’re choosing the wording carefully. “I’m going to step outside for a minute.”
There’s a brief hesitation, the kind that suggests they might press, might ask something more, but you don’t give them the space to.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, softer this time, but certain.
That seems to settle it.
“Of course,” they say, easy enough. “Don’t wander too far.”
“I won’t.”
You offer a small, polite smile, the kind that closes the interaction cleanly, and step back before anything else can be said.
Your movement to exit is immediate, purposeful in a way that feels just a little too urgent beneath the surface. You weave through the crowd with practiced ease, nodding where necessary, offering half-smiles you don’t feel, your focus fixed on the doors across the room.
You don’t look at him, but you can feel it anyway—the awareness of him still there, still watching, following you even as you put distance between you.
Your grip tightens slightly around your clutch as you move, your pulse still not fully settled, something restless sitting just beneath your ribs that refuses to quiet.
You just need a minute. Some air. Space to think.
The doors come faster than you expect, or maybe you’re just moving quicker than you realize, and the second you step through them, the shift is immediate.
Cool air meets your skin, sharp enough to make you pause, just for a second, your breath catching slightly as the noise from inside dulls behind you. The door shuts with a soft, final sound.
You take a few more steps out onto the terrace before stopping, your shoulders lowering slowly as the tension begins to ease, just enough for you to notice how tightly you’d been holding yourself together.
Your hands find the railing almost without thinking, fingers curling around the cool metal as you lean into it slightly, grounding yourself in something solid, something steady.
You draw in a slow breath, then another, letting it out gradually, like you’re trying to match the rhythm of something calmer.
Your gaze drops briefly, following the line of your hands.
The ring glints faintly under the terrace lights, catching just enough to draw your attention before you can stop it. You shift your grip, your thumb brushing along the band in a small, absent motion, and then you look away again, like it doesn’t mean anything.
It didn’t feel like a big conversation when it started.
You were sprawled across your bed, half on your stomach, half turned toward him, your chin resting against your forearm as you absently traced the seam of your comforter with your fingers. The room was quiet in that late-afternoon way, sunlight spilling through the window in long, warm streaks that stretched across the floor and climbed partway up the opposite wall. It caught on everything: your desk, the scattered papers, the framed photos you never moved, the edges of things that felt more lived-in than styled.
Bradley was stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, staring up at the ceiling like he’d been doing it long enough to get lost in his own thoughts. His shoes were kicked off somewhere near the door, his presence filling the space in a way that felt natural now, like he’d been there enough times that nothing about it felt new.
“So,” you said, your voice breaking into it gently, your eyes lifting to him, “have you figured out where you were applying yet?”
You didn’t think much of it when you asked.
It was the kind of question everyone had been asking lately, something that had been circling around your lives, whether you wanted it to or not.
He didn’t answer right away.
That was what made you look at him properly.
His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling for a second longer than it should have, his jaw shifting slightly like he was turning the words over before deciding to say them. Then he exhaled slowly and finally looked over at you.
“Yeah,” he said, “I had.”
Something in your chest tightened before you even knew why. You pushed up slightly onto your elbow, giving him more of your attention without meaning to.
“Okay,” you said, softer now. “Where?”
“The Academy.”
You blinked, the word not quite landing at first. “The Naval Academy?”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
And just like that, the room felt a little different.
It wasn’t just a school. It was distance. Time. A future that might not line up the way you’d been picturing it.
“Oh.” It slipped out before you could stop it, too honest.
His eyes caught yours immediately, something sharpening there. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, already shaking your head, pushing it down before it could become something real.
You sat up a little more, forcing your voice lighter, easier.
“That was—” You let out a small breath, a smile pulling at your mouth that didn’t quite match the feeling in your chest. “That was really good, babe.”
He stared at you, unconvinced. You could feel it in the way his gaze lingered, like he was waiting for you to say something else, something closer to the truth.
“No, it was,” you added, a little more firmly now, like if you said it enough it would settle into something that felt true. “That was… really good.”
The quiet lingered for a moment, not quite tense, but certainly not as effortless as it had been.
“I mean,” you said, a little faster now, like you were catching the thought as it formed, like it was nothing complicated, “I could come too.”
He frowned slightly. “What?”
You shifted, turning more toward him, tucking one leg underneath you. “Why not? I was sure they had something there I’d want to study. Or somewhere close.”
You shrugged, trying for casual, even though you could feel the way your pulse had picked up just slightly. “It wouldn’t be that big of a deal.”
We’d still be us.
You didn’t say it out loud.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you, something more serious settling in his expression now. “You shouldn’t make that kind of decision because of me.”
“I wasn’t,” you said, a little too quickly, but you didn’t look away. “I was just saying it was an option.”
He studied you for a second, longer this time, like he was trying to figure out if you meant it, if this was something you’d actually thought about or something you were saying just to keep things from changing.
“You’d really do that?” he asked.
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
And for a moment, the room held still around you.
“Okay,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. It came out stronger, more certain, like once he decided, he was all in. “Okay, yeah.”
Your breath caught slightly, not expecting how quickly it changed.
“Yeah?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he repeated, and now he was smiling, something bright breaking through the seriousness from a second ago. “We’d figure it out.”
We.
Before you could think too hard about it, he was moving.
He pushed himself up onto his side, then over you slightly, his hands finding your waist like it was instinct, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling except get closer. You let out a surprised laugh as he shifted your weight back into the mattress, the movement easy but deliberate.
“See?” he said, grinning now, a little breathless. “Problem solved.”
“That was your problem?” you teased, your hands coming up to catch at his shoulders, half steadying yourself, half pulling him closer without meaning to.
“Yeah,” he said easily. “Obviously.”
You shook your head, laughing, but it softened when he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, then another, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“Brad—” you started, trying to push him back just enough to look at him, but he didn’t really let you, still smiling, still close, like he suddenly had too much of something and nowhere to put it.
“What?” he said, brushing another kiss just below your ear.
“You were being ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, not even pretending otherwise, his forehead dropping lightly against yours as his laughter faded into something softer. “I know.”
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
And for a solemn moment, everything was as it should be.
It didn’t stay that way for long. The first crack didn’t arrive loudly or announce itself as something that would matter later. It slipped in quietly instead, folded into something that should have been good, something you’d both been waiting for without ever quite saying it out loud.
You were sitting on your bedroom floor this time, your back resting against the side of your bed, the carpet warm beneath your legs. Envelopes were spread between you in a loose, uneven line, some already opened, others still sealed, their edges too crisp, too final for something that was supposed to decide so much.
Bradley sat across from you, one knee bent, the other stretched out, his attention fixed on a single envelope in his hands. He turned it over once, then again, like the contents might change depending on how he looked at it. Neither of you had said much since you started opening them. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much, and neither of you seemed ready to be the one to say it first.
“Did you open that one yet?” you asked after a moment, nodding toward the envelope he was still holding.
He shook his head without looking up. “Not yet.”
“You should.”
“You should open yours first.”
You glanced down at the one resting in your lap, your name printed neatly across the front, your own counterpart to the envelope in his hands. For a second, you just sat there, your fingers tracing the edge of it, like delaying it might somehow hold everything in place a little longer. Then, before you could think too hard about it, you tore it open.
The sound felt louder than it should in the quiet room. You pulled the letter free, your eyes moving too quickly over the words at first, catching fragments before they settled into something you could actually understand.
Accepted.
You stopped, blinking once, then again, like that might change it.
“I got in,” you said, the words softer than you expected, almost like you were still catching up to them.
Bradley’s reaction was immediate. He leaned forward slightly, something warm and proud breaking through his expression as he looked at you, like this had never really been in question for him.
“Yeah?” he said, already smiling. “Yeah, you did.”
You nodded, a breath of a laugh slipping out as it started to feel real. For a moment, everything lined up the way it was supposed to. It all felt like it was finally settling into place.
“Open yours,” you said, still holding onto that feeling, like it was something you could carry forward into whatever came next.
He looked down at the envelope in his hands again, and this time something in his expression shifted. It was small, almost imperceptible, but you noticed it anyway. He opened it, slower than you had, more deliberate, like he was already bracing himself for something.
You watched him closely without meaning to, your attention fixed on the smallest details. The way the paper tore, the way he pulled the letter free, the way his eyes moved across the page, quick at first, then slower. Then they stopped.
The change was immediate, even if it was subtle. Something in him stilled, tightened just enough that you felt it before he said anything.
“What?” you asked, quieter now, the word coming out more carefully than you intended.
He exhaled through his nose, lowering the paper slightly, his jaw setting in a way that told you everything you needed to know before the words came.
“I didn’t get in.”
For a second, it didn’t land. And then it did.
He didn’t look at you. His gaze dropped back to the paper in his hands like there might be something he’d missed, something that would make it make sense if he read it again. His grip tightened slightly along the edge, the only outward sign of the shift happening under the surface.
“That didn’t make any sense,” you said, already pushing yourself up onto your knees, the words coming faster now. “Brad, you—”
“I know.”
The interruption was sharper than you expected. The room stilled around it, the weight of it settling into the space between you. You knew deep down it wasn’t directed at you, but it still stung.
He was already moving before you could say anything else, pushing himself up from the floor in one quick motion, his hand dragging through his hair like he needed something to do with the tension building under his skin. He crossed the room without looking at you, reaching for his phone where he had left it on your desk.
“Bradley—”
“Just—hold on.”
There was something tight in his voice now, something controlled but barely. He dialed, and as the phone began to ring, he was already pacing once across the room and back again.
You didn’t mean to listen, but you did.
“Yeah,” he said as soon as the call connected, his voice low but tense. “It’s me.”
A pause followed, long enough that you could hear your own pulse again, steady but too loud in the quiet room.
“I thought you said everything was good,” he continued, the words coming out more controlled than loud, but no less sharp for it.
Another pause stretched, heavier this time, and when he spoke again there was something more beneath it, something that sounded like frustration pushed down too far.
“No, that’s not what you said. You said you’d put in a good word. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
Your hands curled slightly in your lap, fingers pressing into your palms as you watched him pace, the movement restless, contained.
“I did everything right,” he said, quieter now, but the edge hadn’t left. “I had the grades, I had the recommendations—so what changed?”
Silence answered him again. He stopped moving, listening, his back half-turned to you, his shoulders tight.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment, flatter now. “Right. Okay.”
Another pause followed, longer, and when he spoke again the anger wasn’t gone. It had just been shut down, packed away somewhere you couldn’t quite reach.
“Yeah,” he repeated. “Got it.”
He ended the call without another word.
The quiet that followed felt heavier than the one before it, like something in the room had shifted just enough that you couldn’t put it back where it was. You stayed where you were, not quite sure if moving would make it worse or better.
“Brad…” you started carefully, your voice softer now.
He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before finally turning to look at you. His expression had changed again, the tension still there but buried deeper now, harder to read.
“It’s fine,” he said.
It wasn’t.
You both knew it.
It's your phone that brings you back to reality.
The vibration is soft, muffled slightly from where it sits tucked inside your clutch, but it cuts through the quiet of the terrace with startling clarity, dragging you out of the past before you’re ready to leave it.
You blink, grounding yourself, your fingers already moving before you fully register the motion. The clasp of your bag gives way under your touch, and you retrieve your phone with a familiarity that feels almost automatic, as if your body knows what to do even as your mind is still catching up.
The screen lights your face faintly.
A message waits there.
Hope the gala’s going well. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you tonight.
From your fiancé.
You read it once.
Then again, slower this time, as if something about it might change if you give it enough attention.
There’s nothing wrong with it—not careless or distant—no reason to hesitate. It’s exactly how he always is: considerate, measured, steady in a way that makes sense for the life you’ve built, for the person he is.
Your thumb hovers over the screen, caught in that familiar pause between reading and replying, the moment stretching just long enough for the choice to settle in.
You could answer, but you don’t.
The screen dims beneath your touch, the message fading as the phone locks, and you slip it back into your clutch, the decision made without letting yourself linger on it.
Your hand lingers at the edge of your bag for a moment before dropping back to your side, and almost without thinking, your gaze follows the movement, drawn downward to where the ring catches faintly under the terrace lights.
It glints just enough to hold your attention.
You turn your hand slightly, your thumb brushing the band in a slow, absent motion, feeling the smooth edge press against your skin. The movement is small, repetitive, something you don’t quite realize you’re doing until you’ve already done it twice, adjusting it, settling it, like you’re trying to make sure it sits exactly where it’s supposed to.
It does. It always does.
Your hand stills there for a moment, fingers loosely curled, as the weight of it settles back into something harder to ignore. The air moves faintly around you, cool against your skin, but you don’t shift with it. Instead, you close your eyes briefly, just long enough to steady yourself, to gather the edges of something that threatens to surface before it can fully take shape. It presses in anyway, the memory of your childhood bedroom, the warmth of his hands, the certainty you had then, colliding uncomfortably with the present in a way that makes your chest tighten before you can stop it.
You inhale slowly, controlled, letting the breath out just as carefully, forcing the feeling back down before it becomes anything visible. By the time you open your eyes again, your expression has already settled into something smoother, something practiced, the kind of composure that doesn’t invite questions. Your hand drops from the ring without hesitation, as if the movement itself is enough to draw a line under the moment, something decided without being fully acknowledged.
For a second, you just stand there, looking out over the terrace, letting the quiet reassert itself around you. The city stretches beyond in soft, distant lights, unchanged, indifferent to whatever has just shifted inside you. It would be easy to stay here, to let the night flatten everything back into something manageable, something that doesn’t ask anything more of you than this.
But the feeling lingers.
And this time, you don’t push it away.
You noticed it in small ways at first, the kind that were easy to excuse if you weren’t looking too closely. The way he took longer to respond when you texted him, the way his answers felt shorter when he did. The way he didn’t quite look at you the same when you showed up at his door, like something in him was already somewhere else, somewhere you didn’t have access to.
You told yourself it was just the disappointment. That it made sense. That it would pass.
It didn’t.
By the time you ended up at the party that Saturday night, the distance had settled into something harder to ignore. The house was already full when you got there, music spilling out into the yard, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even stepped inside. Someone you vaguely recognized pulled you into a quick hello, the air thick with heat and noise and the kind of energy that was supposed to feel fun, easy, like a release after a long week.
Bradley was already a step ahead of you when you pushed through the front door, already grabbing a drink from someone passing by like he’d been there longer than he had. He didn’t wait for you to catch up, didn’t glance back the way he normally would, just took a long pull like he needed it more than he should have.
“Brad,” you said, reaching for his arm lightly, trying to ground him, to pull his attention back to you. “Hey.”
He looked at you then, but it was brief, something flickering across his expression before it settled into something looser, less focused. “Hey,” he echoed, already turning slightly away as someone called his name from across the room.
It happened again.
And again.
Each time you found him, he had another drink in his hand, his words coming easier, louder, but not warmer. Not the way they usually were with you. There was a looseness to him that felt wrong, like it was covering something instead of revealing it, like he was trying not to sit still long enough for anything real to catch up with him.
You stayed close anyway.
You followed him through the house, through half-finished conversations and too-loud laughter, through rooms that blurred together until it all started to feel the same. You told yourself it was fine, that he just needed this, that letting him burn through whatever this was might be easier than trying to stop it.
But the more he drank, the less he seemed like himself.
And the more you felt it.
By the time you found him again, he was out on the back porch, leaning heavily against the railing, another bottle of beer loose in his hand. The night air was cooler out there, cutting through some of the haze from inside, but it didn’t seem to reach him.
“Bradley,” you said, quieter this time, stepping closer.
He laughed under his breath, not looking at you right away. “There you are.”
It wasn’t relief, but something else.
You reached for him again, your hand settling against his arm, more firmly now. “You’ve had enough.”
That got his attention.
His head turned, slow, his gaze landing on you in a way that felt sharper than it had all night, even through the alcohol, “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” you said, keeping your voice even, even as something tighter curled underneath it. “You’ve barely talked to me all night, and now you’re—”
“What?” he cut in, the word coming out rougher than you expected. “Drinking?”
There was an edge there now.
You hesitated, just for a second, “That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” He let out a short laugh, pushing himself off the railing just enough to face you more fully. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Brad—”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but it didn’t sound like it was. His hand dragged back through his hair, restless, agitated, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not babysitting you,” you replied, the frustration slipping in despite yourself. “I’m trying to talk to you.”
“About what?” he snapped.
You stared at him for a second, “You know what.”
His expression shifted again, something closing off behind his eyes, something defensive settling in where there had been space before. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I think I do.”
There was a beat.
And then it came out.
“You’re still going,” he said, like it had been sitting there all night, waiting. “Just like that. Like nothing changed.”
Your chest tightened. “Bradley—”
“No, seriously,” he continued, talking over you now, the words picking up speed, losing control. “You just… what? Pack up and leave, go off to Annapolis, and that’s it?”
“That’s not what this is,” you said, but it felt thinner now, harder to hold onto.
“Then what is it?” he demanded, stepping closer, not aggressive, but too intense, too charged. “Because it feels like you’re just… fine with it.”
“I’m not fine with it,” you said, sharper now. “I just—what am I supposed to do? Not go?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he said.
The word hit like a slap.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Pick somewhere else,” he said, like it was obvious, like it was simple. “Stay here. Go somewhere near me. It’s not like that’s your only option.”
You stared at him, something sinking in slowly, heavily. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” he insisted, jaw tightening. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because this matters to me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but steadier. “You know it does.”
“And this doesn’t?” he shot back, gesturing between you like it should be enough to answer everything.
“I needed a breath too.”
The words reach you long before you’re prepared for them, low and close enough to pull you out of the past all at once.
You turn too quickly.
There’s no control in it, no time to smooth the reaction before it shows. It passes almost immediately, but not before it registers, not before it lands somewhere between you.
Bradley stands a few steps behind you, the terrace door falling softly shut at his back. He looks the same and not at all the same, the years written into the lines of him in ways that feel unfamiliar and deeply known all at once. His hand lingers against the door for a second before dropping, his attention settling on you with a quiet kind of focus that feels heavier than it should.
You recover.
You have to.
You turn back toward the railing, not fully, just enough to put something between you, your gaze drifting outward as if the city beyond the terrace holds your attention more than he does. It’s easier that way, easier to pretend this is something ordinary, something manageable.
“Crowded in there,” you say, your voice light, almost absent, like you haven’t just been pulled out of something you weren’t ready to leave. “Figured I’d get some air.”
You hear him shift behind you, feel the space change in that subtle way that has nothing to do with distance and everything to do with awareness.
“Yeah,” Bradley says after a moment. “Same.”
You nod, just once, as if that’s enough to close the conversation before it can open into something else. Your fingers rest against the railing, still now, deliberate in their stillness, like you’ve decided not to give anything else away.
For a moment, it almost works.
The quiet stretches, and if you don’t look at him, if you don’t move, you can almost pretend this is nothing more than a coincidence.
Your hand shifts.
It’s unconscious, the smallest movement, your fingers adjusting where they rest against the railing, and the light catches before you think to stop it.
You feel the way his attention drops before you see it, the way something in the space between you changes without a single word being spoken.
Your breath catches, almost imperceptibly, your thumb brushing over the band in a reflex you can’t quite control now that you know he’s seen it. The metal feels heavier under your touch, more present, like it’s been pulled into focus in a way it hadn’t been before.
You can't bring yourself to look at him, make eye contact.
The silence that follows is no longer neutral. It tightens, pulls inward, something unspoken settling heavily between you, something that refuses to be ignored now that it’s been noticed.
“...That new?” he asks, quieter this time.
You swallow, the motion small but necessary, and when you answer, your voice comes out steadier than you feel, softened into something that almost passes for easy.
“Yeah,” you say, turning your hand slightly as if it’s nothing, as if the gesture itself might make it smaller. “A few months.”
He can't bring himself to respond right away. You can feel him thinking, the silence stretching just long enough to make you aware of it, just long enough that it starts to press in again, uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with the night air.
“Is he good to you?”
You let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite, your gaze still fixed somewhere out past the railing, like the answer might be easier to give if you don’t look at him while you say it.
“Yeah,” you say after a second, and this time it comes easier. “He is.”
A punctuating pause settles. The distant hum of the nearby city feels louder for it, the rustle of wind against the railing, the soft shift of fabric as he adjusts his stance to lean on the railing beside you.
You keep your gaze forward, fingers tightening just slightly where they rest, nails pressing faintly into your palm. Your shoulders stay squared, but there’s a tension there now, a quiet rigidity that wasn’t there before.
“Boringly so,” you add, a faint, wry edge slipping into your voice before you can stop it.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, leaning a little more of his weight into the railing beside you.
His fingers drift to the cuff of his sleeve, smoothing at it once, then again, a small restless motion that gives away more than his face does.
“That’s good,” he adds, and this time it sounds more deliberate, like he’s choosing the words instead of letting them come naturally.
Your fingers loosen slightly against the railing, then tighten again, the small movement betraying you more than anything you’ve said. You force your hand to be still, pressing your palm flat like that might steady something deeper than just your hands.
“Sounds like you picked right,” he says, with a distinct lack of bitterness.
But there’s something underneath it, something restrained and careful in a way that feels practiced, like he’s already decided what he’s allowed to say and what he isn’t.
You swallow, your throat tightening slightly, and this time when you nod, it feels different.
Heavier.
“Yeah,” you say softly.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back.
The porch felt smaller then, tighter, like the air had shifted into something harder to breathe.
Bradley stared at you, something incredulous flashing across his face, something hurt buried just beneath it. “I don’t get to ask you that?” he repeated, like he was trying to make sense of it, like the words didn’t quite land the way you meant them to.
“No,” you said, your voice steadier that time, even if your chest wasn’t. “You don’t get to stand here and tell me to change my entire future and then act like that’s—reasonable.”
“Your future?” he cut in, the words coming faster now, something sharper breaking through. He let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “The Academy was supposed to be my future.”
“And what?” you fired back. “I just wasn’t supposed to get in because you wanted it first?”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he snapped, but there was frustration threaded through it now, uneven, slipping out of his control. “I’m saying you knew what it meant to me.”
“And you knew what it means to me,” you shot back. “You don’t get to act like I didn’t work my ass off for this, same as you.”
“Yeah,” he said, a humorless laugh slipping out, “and somehow you just—what—slid right into it like it was always yours.”
The words hit harder than he probably intended.
You stared at him, something in your chest tightening. “What? You think I somehow stole this from you?”
“I think everything just… worked out for you,” he said, gesturing loosely, like he couldn’t quite contain it anymore. “And I’m the one left standing here trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.”
“That is not my fault,” you said, sharper then. “I am not the one that fucked you over.”
His jaw tightened.
“It is your fault,” he shot back, stepping closer now, the space between you collapsing too fast. “If you just—leave. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I’m not part of that decision at all.”
“I’m not leaving you behind,” you said, but it came out thinner than you wanted it to.
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” he said, quieter then, but it cut deeper for it. “You just don’t want to call it that.”
You dragged a hand through your hair, frustration spiking. “What do you want me to do? Say no? Turn it down? Pretend this doesn’t matter to me now that I’ve put in all the work?”
“I want you to care,” he said, and the words landed heavier than anything else he’d said. “I want you to act like this isn’t just… easy for you.”
“It’s not easy,” you said, but your voice was already breaking around the edges.
“Then why does it feel like it is?” he pressed, louder now, the frustration spilling over. “Why does it feel like you’ve already made up your mind and I’m just supposed to—what—fall in line?”
“I didn’t realize I needed your permission to decide my own future.”
“That’s not what this is,” he said immediately, but there was no real conviction behind it anymore, just momentum carrying him forward.
“Then what is it?” you pushed, your voice rising. “Because right now it sounds like you’re asking me to give something up so you don’t have to deal with being disappointed.”
Something in him snapped.
Not all at once—but enough.
“You know this is my dream,” he said, but it was rough then, dragged out of him instead of chosen.
“I know,” you said, softer, but it didn’t slow him down.
“No, I don’t think you do,” he snapped, the volume breaking through, his voice cutting across the quiet of the porch. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing here acting like this is just—fine.”
“I’m not acting like it’s fine,” you shot back, your own voice unsteady then. “I’m trying to figure it out and you’re not even giving me the chance to—”
“To what?” he cut in, louder, stepping closer without realizing it. “To leave and make it sound like it wasn’t a choice?”
“That’s not fair—”
“Nothing about this is fair,” he said, and that time it wasn’t just frustration—it was anger, raw and unfiltered, something you’d never seen from him before. “You get everything you wanted, and I’m just supposed to stand here and be okay with it? Watch you go and pretend it doesn’t matter?”
The words hit hard.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it, your chest tightening painfully as you tried to hold your ground.
“I’m not asking you to pretend it doesn’t matter,” you said, but your voice was already breaking. “I’m asking you to not make me choose between this and you.”
“I’m not making you choose,” he fired back, but it sounded wrong even as he said it. “You already did.”
You stared at him, your breath catching, tears slipping free before you could stop them.
“That’s not true,” you said, but it came out thin, unsteady, like it didn’t stand a chance against what he’d just said.
For a second, it looked like he was about to say something else, something worse. His chest rose, his mouth opening like the words were already there, something sharp and irreversible sitting right on the edge—
Suddenly, he stopped. You could see it happen, the moment he caught himself. His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping briefly like he was forcing something back down, like he was pulling himself away from a line he knew he couldn’t cross.
When he looked back at you, it was different. Still angry. But restrained then, barely held together.
“Just—” he started, then cut himself off, shaking his head.
You waited.
He exhaled sharply.
“Just go.”
You blinked at him, like you hadn’t heard him right, like you were waiting for him to take it back.
He didn’t.
“Go,” he repeated, not louder, not angrier—just final.
Something in your chest gave.
You nodded once, barely, your throat too tight to say anything, and then you turned before he could see anything else, before you could fall apart any more than you already had.
The noise from inside crashed over you as you pushed through the door, the music too loud, the lights too bright, everything too much all at once.
You refused to stop. You needed to get out of there. You didn’t look back, you just went.
He didn’t follow.
You don’t look at him when you speak.
“So,” you say instead, your voice lighter than it has any right to be, like you can smooth this back into something normal if you try hard enough. “I hear you’ve been busy.”
There’s a faint shift beside you.
Not one of surprise, more like recognition.
“Something like that,” he says, and there’s a hint of something dry in it, something that almost passes for humor. “Word gets around, I guess.”
You nod, letting out a small breath, your fingers resting more loosely against the railing now, like you’ve decided to play this part all the way through. “It does. Hard not to, when half the room in there won’t stop talking about you.”
It’s true.
You heard it before you even saw him.
His name, his reputation, the quiet reverence that follows it.
He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh at that, the sound low and almost self-conscious. “Yeah, well. They make it sound better than it is.”
“I doubt that,” you say, glancing at him briefly this time, just enough to take him in properly. The uniform. The way he carries himself now is steadier, more certain. “Seems like you did exactly what you set out to do.”
The words settle between you, and for a moment, something gentler passes through the space.
Something that could almost be mistaken for pride.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I did.”
You nod again, like that’s enough, like that closes that door neatly.
It doesn’t.
You feel it in the pause that follows, the way neither of you quite knows where to go next without stepping into something deeper than either of you has acknowledged yet.
So you don’t. You keep it light.
“What about you?” he asks after a moment, his tone shifting slightly, more careful now. “Doesn’t quite look like you're still in.”
You shake your head, a small, almost absent movement, your gaze drifting back out over the terrace. “Not anymore.”
“Yeah?” he says, and there’s something in it now, something quieter, more pointed. “What happened?”
You shrug lightly, like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry the weight it actually does. “Nothing dramatic. Just… figured out it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.”
He studies you for a second, and you can feel it without looking, the way his attention settles, the way he doesn’t quite accept the answer at face value.
“Huh,” he says finally, the sound low, almost thoughtful. “All that work.”
There’s a pause.
Then, softer, with just enough edge to catch—
“Kind of a waste of an Academy education, isn’t it?”
It initially reads as lighthearted, almost a joke, but underneath the surface, it carries a weight. It stings slightly.
You let out a small breath, something close to a laugh, even as your fingers tighten again against the railing. “Yeah,” you say, matching the tone, keeping it easy. “Guess so.”
Follow this path for “the lucky ones.” (Coming Soon)
Follow this path for a story that looks like a tragedy now. (Coming Soon)
notes: choose your own part 2! <3 (please please please let me know if you see any typos!! i'll go in and fix them)
the bradshaw arrangement | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x reader AU
masterlist
It's 1814, and after failing to find a suitor, your parents decide to intervene. You never wanted to marry, not like this, not to a man you barely knew. But when your family forces you into a union with Lord Bradley Bradshaw, a man haunted by loss and duty, you find yourself trapped in a cold marriage neither of you asked for.
What begins as resentment slowly softens into something real, and both you and Bradley come to find that perhaps this arrangement might not be so bad after all.
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8
part 9
part 10
---
A/N: Okay so i love bridgerton and am really excited for the next season so I wanted to write something with the same vibes haha. Let me know what you think!! :)) planning on posting sometime in december/january
honestly? abandoned/on indefinite hiatus/very slow to update fics, even and especially AUs and longfics, are often some of my absolute favorites. and people who refuse to read them are missing out!
for one, stories don’t have to be finished to be enjoyable and worth reading. but also? an unfinished fic is a whole little universe that just keeps on existing in my head! their world stays alive for me in a way that doesn’t always happen with fics I binge read and finish, and i love it. i don’t know how their story ends, so it just keeps going! and even when those stories DO update and finish years later, they’ve been in my head for so long that they stick around like old friends.
so to any author with unfinished works: thank you SO much for sharing what you had without waiting to finish it first. you’re just giving me the gift of getting to spend more time with your story and your idea. if you do update again someday, i’ll be delighted to jump back in! but if you don’t, just know a little piece of your world still lives on in a beloved tiny terrarium in my brain. i promise i’m taking good care of it :)
i don’t normally ask this, but if this resonates with you please reblog it, so it can reach the authors who need to hear it <3
festive flight risk | bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x reader
masterlist
You're the no nonsense civilian evaluator assigned to Top Gun, the one who makes even the best pilots groan when you walk through the door each month. You don't do small talk. You don't do fun. And you definitely don't do Christmas.
Then there's Lieutenant Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw, who's determined to change that.
This December, he's made it his personal mission to teach you how to love the holidays, one chaotic day at a time.
part 1 | december 1st
part 2 | december 4th
part 3 | december 8th
part 4 | december 10th
part 5 | december 12th
part 6 | december 15th
part 7 | december 18th
part 8 | december 20th
part 9 | christmas eve
part 10 | new year's eve
bonus chapter | all i want for christmas...
A\N: I know it's only just November but thought I'd tease this one! Will be uploading all through December (not on those dates though, that'll make sense soon!)
It's almost tiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmeeee!!! This kinktober will be just like last year's (except this time I will prepare better so I don't burn out on day 29)
Each fic will be at least 200 words, some will be much longer, others will be right around that mark but I hope you're as excited as I am!
Characters involved this year include: Evan Buckley, Eddie Diaz, Bobby Nash, Tim Bradford, Mark Meachum, Amber Oliveras, Colter & Russell Shaw, Natasha "Phoenix" Trace, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Jake "Hangman" Seresin, Robert "Bob" Floyd, & Tyler Owens.
Fandoms involved this year include: 9-1-1, The Rookie, Countdown, Tracker, Top Gun Maverick, & Twisters
As always - if you want to join the taglist, just ask!
Day One | Creampie | Jake Seresin x Reader
Day Two | Pet Play | Buddie
Day Three | Sweat | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader
Day Four | Mask | Buddie x Reader
Day Five | Spanking | Russell Shaw x Reader
Day Six | Thigh Riding | Bobby Nash x Reader
Day Seven | Face Fucking | Buddie
Day Eight | Overstimulation | Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader
Day Nine | Sensory Deprivation | Natasha "Phoenix" Trace x Reader
Day Ten | Porn | Mark Meachum x Reader
Day Eleven | Skinny Dipping | Colter Shaw x Reader
Day Twelve | Voyeurism | Buddie x Reader
Day Thirteen | Rough Sex | Mark Meachum x Reader
Day Fourteen | Breeding Kink | Evan Buckley x Reader
Day Fifteen | Period Sex | Eddie Diaz x Reader
Day Sixteen | Monsterfucking | Buddie
Day Seventeen | Costume Sex | Bobby Nash x Reader
Day Eighteen | Don't Get Caught | Tim Bradford x Reader
Day Nineteen | Freeuse | Russell Shaw x Reader
Day Twenty | Praise Kink | Eddie Diaz x Reader
Day Twenty One | Face Sitting | Mark Meachum x Reader
Day Twenty Two | Outdoor Sex | Shaw Brothers x Reader (pt. 1)
Day Twenty Three | Shibari | Shaw Brothers x Reader (pt. 2)
Day Twenty Four | Lingerie (+ brat taming) | Buddie x Reader
Day Twenty Five | Drunk Sex | Mark Meachum x Reader
Day Twenty Six | Age Gap | Eddie Diaz x Reader
Day Twenty Seven | Multiple Orgasms | Tyler Owens x Reader
Day Twenty Eight | Undercover | Amber Oliveras x Reader
Day Twenty Nine | Sacrilegious | Eddie Diaz x Reader
Day Thirty | Cuddlefuck | Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader
Day Thirty One | Aftercare | Evan Buckley x Reader
You and Bradley haven't been in the same room for more than an hour in two years, not since the bitter divorce anyway - but when your kids ask for one last family vacation, you end up in paradise... with your new partners tagging along.
What starts as awkward co-parenting under the Hawaiian sun quickly turns into something else entirely. Old sparks resurface and tension builds, and your kids? They have a secret plan to get their parents back together, whether mom and dad like it or not.
prologue
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8
part 9
part 10
epilogue
---
A/N: had an idea and ran with it! Think just go with it and parent trap vibes for this one!! Coming in July :)
In 1998, North Island was the scene of a trail of murders, claiming the life of your mother. Ten years on, fate brings you back to the island, in the form of your best friend Jake's wedding. An estranged father, the boy you left behind, and the memories of your mother's death leave you less than excited for the trip home. But when the wedding party begins to get picked off one-by-one, you're forced to grapple with the idea that your mother's murder may have only been the beginning.
inspired by harper's island (2009), reader is maverick's daughter but mother's appearance is not described, and no physical descriptions of reader are made beyond having hair
warnings: 18+, mdni! violence (i mean, it's a slasher, so it would be weird if there wasn't violence), explicit sexual content (pinv, oral (both), fingering, etc)
Summary: Work has been stressful and that left you wrongfully getting snippy with your boyfriends. They make sure to get the attitude out of you. Things go a little unplanned at the end.
Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x afab!Reader x Jake “Hangman” Seresin
Warnings: GUYS THIS IS PURE FILTHY SMUT PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION! MDNI 18+ ONLY! I’m not going to put every warning in here just know there’s a lot.
Is It Working For You? masterlist (Rooster x Reader)
Rooster has had his eye on you all week at work, and now you’re at the Hard Deck looking too good to be true. The Roo and Baby Girl origin story! roosterforme masterlist
The Outlaw and the Lady (Benedict Bridgerton x femOC AU fanfic Masterlist)
A/N: This is a Benedict Bridgerton Outlaw AU (x fem OC).
Genre: adventure, drama, angst, romance
Rating: M
Summary:
In the lawless frontiers of the American West, Benedict Bridgerton is not a gentleman, but an outlaw. Known as the "Bluecoat Bandit" for the signature navy duster he wears, Benedict is a rogue with a reputation for stealing from corrupt railroad tycoons and greedy land barons.
But when a routine train heist goes sideways, he finds himself tangled with an unexpected hostage: an English lady named Delilah Pembroke, who is on her way to marry a powerful but ruthless cattle magnate.
This is a slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers romance!
CHAPTER LIST:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
...to be continued
Summary: Set two weeks after Enthralled. Benedict appears on All Hallow’s Eve, and your husband is not home…
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, mentions of blood drinking, bloodplay, cunnilingus, facesitting, creampie & vaginal sex
Word Count: 0.7k
Authors Note: Set in the same world as Enthralled. Just a little scene that came to me last night, so I am posting it for Halloween. If there’s interest, I could write more. @colettebronte kindly gave this a once over. Dividers by @/firefly-graphics. Enjoy! <3
“Where is our fine Doctor tonight?”
Benedict's rich baritone rings out through Dorset House, making you jump. Once again, he has materialised seemingly from the ether.
“Away,” you explain once you have modulated your breathing. “Tending to a sick patient. We received a visitor on horseback stating that he was urgently needed at Bingley Hall. He took off on our fastest steed not a half hour ago.”
Benedict draws closer, the flames from the nearby fireplace dancing in his eyes as he does so. The room suddenly notches much warmer, even in just your simple silk house dress.
“So… ‘tis just us?” he checks as the hallway clock softly chimes 11pm.
“It would appear so,” you titter, unable to hide your quake of nerves, watching as he glides across the room towards your drinks cabinet.
You have yet to spend time with Benedict without your husband. It has only been a fortnight since you met this man, well creature, well, no, being.
“Vampire,” he supplies helpfully, raising a laconic brow as your eyes dart to meet his.
Sometimes, you forget he can read your thoughts.
He makes his way back over to you, handing you a glass of wine, dark red, like blood.
“Tis not,” he assures with a crooked smile, once again knowing the contents of your mind. “A toast?”
“To what?” you blurt, drawn to the flash of his incisor glinting in the soft candlelight of your drawing room.
“To us,” he rumbles portentously as he clinks his glass against yours. “Alone at last….” he adds, holding your gaze hypnotically.
He takes a long, indulgent sip, ensuring your eyes track his throat as he swallows the viscous drink, Adam's apple bobbing prominently under alabaster skin.
Something flares in your stomach as you mirror his actions, taking a sip and feeling the weight of his stare upon your jugular vein. Trepidation mixed with arousal, wanton desire, more than a tinge of reckless abandon. You have never given yourself to this man without your husband present. This would be something else entirely.
He takes the wine from you, moving in, smelling of smoke and damp earth, petrichor in human-like form. His nose buries into your hairline, and he takes a deep inhale, scenting you.
Just those simple words alone have you trembling for him. You can't help the moan that escapes your lips as he kisses along your jawline, your hands encircling his biceps, the fine black wool of his jacket tickling your palm. A tartness blooming on your tongue that is mesmeric.
“I want to sink my teeth into every inch of your pristine skin…” His voice is decadent and dusky, your heart pounding as he moves to worry your throat. A slight shudder races down your spine as his fang traces your pulsing artery, lightly snagging your skin. “So many things I want to do to you….” he trails off as you find yourself pliant in his arms, under his thrall once again.
He effortlessly turns you around in his arms, crowding into your back. The press of his rigid cock into the cleft of your bum is unmistakable. His mouth works its way across the top of your exposed shoulder as you pant lightly, every cell in your body thronging for him to take you, make you his again, as you have been ever since that fateful night.
“I want to hold you down and drink from you and fuck you, then do it all again. I want to taste my seed dripping from inside you. I want to bite your thigh while you writhe upon my face after we fuck. Your blood, your cum and mine, I want to taste it all….”
His filthy soliloquy has you barely able to stand, swooning back into his solid mass, needing every filthy, debauched thing he promises. A large hand stoops low, gathering your dress until he can run his cool palm up your quivering thigh, not stopping until he is cupping your bare, soaked cunt.
“What do you say, my goddess? Will you permit me? ‘Tis All Hallows Eve after all…..”
Who are you to resist?
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